


When I Die, I'll be on Time

by Upupanyway



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Aging, Character Death, Depression, F/M, Gen, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Regrets, Reminiscing, families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 16:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway
Summary: Matt reflects on the course of his life. He remembers the constants. He remembers Foggy.





	1. Chapter 1

There aren’t many times I curse God anymore. Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of growth, and I’ve managed to grow out of that young anger. I've found it’s actually harder to remain static. I hope you’re proud of me.

As my senses grew dull, as my bones grew more brittle, I learned that God never expected me to shoulder everything I tried to back then. I’ve seen the young ones on the scene. Good people that continue to do good work. Despite all the blood and hate, past the sounds of the crushing skulls and piercing screams, there’s still so much good out there. It beats a steady rhythm. It’s constant, if quiet sometimes. I used to think that was God’s voice, daring me to nurture that good, willing my fists into weapons for his cause.

It sounds like how I remember your heartbeat to sound, if you were to ask me to describe it. Resilient, happy, forgiving.

Years ago, we made each other so many promises. I wonder if I loved you then. I must have. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t. Nelson and Murdock. A united front. Partners. No, I was definitely giddy with love. It’s a wonder you didn’t sense it. God had given you to me in ways I never could have imagined and I was so happy. You were so precious to me.

I thought God would be proud of me back then. I was so restrained. I never kissed you. I never let my hands linger on your elbow. I never even sought out a telltale spike in your heart rate, a shift in your pheromones. I reasoned that you wouldn’t be receptive. I reasoned that it would have been better to keep you any way I could. But I was just a coward. I see that now.

(Man without fear, my ass. I had so many fears, Foggy. So many of them centered you.)

This is the part where you start hating me. I’ve kissed so many people. I’ve kissed so many people and I pieced you together from their touches. I learned to approximate your smell, the writers’ calluses on your hands, the texture of your hair, the give of muscle and fat under flesh. All the parts of you I knew to be true. Filling in the gaps with speculation. I loved some of them, too, but none of them were you. All these years later, I know that if you gave me a fraction of what they did, I would hold on so tightly. I would have abandoned so much for you.

I know now that I wasn’t special in loving you. The streets whispered your name more than you could imagine. You knew everyone in town. They all loved you. You did so much good and you seemed to bring everyone together. A garbage man’s mother. A bank teller’s son. A priest or two. They shared in their loving you when they had nothing else in common. A single-handed task force cleaning up after the fists and gunpowder, making sure everyone got home safe with a casserole in their hands and a warm blanket wrapped around them. Even now, even with you gone, there’s the occasional appreciative sigh to the tune of your name. It’s a beautiful and tragic one. And it affects me still, every time.

I could never do what you did. I hate too easily. God knows that. I’m sure you figured it out, too. It’s easy to see the evil and want to destroy it. We shared that conviction. But you would never kill, you held onto the hope of rehabilitation, justice beyond retribution. So I did, too. You were the master of the benefit of the doubt. It was always something besides evil. Socioeconomic disparities. Learned behaviour. Duress. Forgiving in ways that rivaled sainthood, my friend. You didn’t even have to fight to be good, it was as natural as the easy smiles you gave away to everyone, anyone willing to have it. And when you did hate, you hated deeply. It gave me permission to hate, too. But you always hated for the sake of others. It never occurred to you to be selfish, even with your private feelings, even for an instant.

But I was selfish. I hated unevenly. I hated everyone who laid a hand on you. And my dad, my priest, Karen, Milla, Kirsten, my son. Everyone I loved. I’m sure even you could understand.

But it’s unforgivable that I hated your wife. I hated her because she made you sad sometimes and you still stuck by her. I hated that she took up all your time. I hated that even when she grew callous, you could always soften her. I hated that she wore expensive perfumes that mixed with your natural scent. I hated that you were devoted to her. I hated that she was so much like me and that she got to love you. I hated that she made me confront the realization that maybe, I was never special to you.

You had always loved indiscriminately. There's an acute horror I still feel at the idea that I was only ever just another person in need that you wanted to take care of. That you stuck by me because you sensed that I was more in need of your love than other, more sensible people. And I thank God that I was too stubborn to be helped because it made you stay. I pray for forgiveness because you didn’t deserve to be burdened with me.

You asked me to be your best man. I was grateful, truly, but I hated that too. I hated how your heart skipped seeing Marci walk down the aisle. I hated the taste of your beautiful, happy tears in the air when she vowed to stay with you, for better or worse, and that her heart kept ringing true. I hated that you weren’t my secret anymore. Someone else had seen you like I had. It was a petulant notion, but I really didn’t want to share.

I remember trying to hold onto you afterwards. I let my fingers linger over your arms. I leaned closer whispering secrets to you. I took every excuse to touch you, hoping it would stir something. I clung to you, hoping you’d notice me. But you never did. Your tone was ever its bright and cheery cadence. Your happy hums betrayed nothing. Your heart beat steady and true and never for me. You went home to your wife, told her about your day, kissed her and she got to kiss you back. And when you talked about me your breath wouldn’t hitch with guilt because Foggy Nelson is a good and faithful man. I have to admit that I hated that, too.

How many times had I let you down? By a rough estimate, hell, even a generous estimate: too many. And the worst ways you don’t even know about. But I can’t bring myself to be sorry for wanting you. Even after all these years, I still want you.

I am sorry, though. For just about everything else.

Can you hear me from where you are? Are you and Karen watching over me, laughing about how bald I’ve gotten, how my abused bones don’t let me walk so much anymore, how many hours I still spend trying to listen to the city? No, you’re both too good for that. I don’t know where I fit with you guys anymore, if I even matter. But I hope you’ve made space for me, wherever you are.

When did I last speak to you? Thirty years ago, at least. I still remember my heart breaking (like it broke every time). We shook hands. We didn’t even hug. Our last moment of contact. Do you remember what you said, then? Or is it muddled in your memory with all the other arguments we’ve had over the years? I hope you know that I realize how right you were. Always. About everything. I was self destructive. I splattered my blood and pain and baggage onto everyone within reaching distance. You had wanted me to slow down, and I refused to listen. It was familiar territory. But this time, you had new ammo. You wanted your child to know my face. Your wife was pregnant, and you were trying to be happy and I was mad at you for wanting to pull away from the mess I would inevitably make. I knew you were right, but I didn’t want you to be. I was getting old by then, too. But I was fighting the knowledge that in the end you would choose her over me. Of course you would. You left quietly. You shook your head softly. Told me to stay in touch.

I couldn’t.

I had wanted to get you to stay, pull you to my couch, and tell you everything. I wanted to feel you smile for me again, laugh with me, maybe even embrace me again. I wanted to bask in your attention like I used to be able to. Maybe you would have kissed me, whispering sweet revelations to me. We would have spent the night tracing each other’s scars with our fingers, then, our mouths. You would pull your ring off and I would never have to feel that wretched, warm metal on me ever again.

You would have hated me if I had tried. So I didn’t. I couldn’t make you hate me more than I was sure you did already. You left and I held onto the hope that you still thought of me as your best friend. That one day we could reconnect. I would need something and pick up my phone. Or you would think of me and we’d talk it out over coffee and too-sweet pastries that made me slightly sick. It would have been worth it to be able to listen to you again.

Then there was all the cancer. I visited you in the hospital three times, but you were always sleeping. And Marci was always there, holding your hand, and it wasn’t me. I was on the roof more times than I could count, and even then, Marci was there. And your son was there, too, making soft cooing noises, learning to associate his father with the scent of antiseptic and chemotherapy. And when you went into remission, I wasn’t there celebrating among your family because I didn’t have a place in that picture.

I curse the fact that you were loved for other reasons, too. Like the kidnappings and the beatings. You had a target on your head, buddy. Defending the risky ones in court, taking on hard cases because of your damned sense of justice. I hated it. But by then, you had other friends with hard-hitting fists. And when you got home, you had a surprisingly understanding wife who would lick your wounds and let you eat your favourite ice cream which wasn’t sickeningly artificial to her nose.

I hope you understand why I pulled back from us. You didn’t need me anymore. But by then, I started to realize, neither did Hell’s Kitchen. So a few years too late, took your advice and retired anyway. I tried my hand at having a family. But she still wasn’t you. We didn’t even last to our son’s first words.

I named him after my favourite people, by the way. My dad and you. I don’t know if you heard about him. Shy kid, but strong-willed. I thank God his mother could be more present than I could be. Jackie would have loved you, you know. He’s always thirsty for stories, even still as an adult, and God, you always had so many. You wouldn’t have been able to catch your breath. I don’t know if he ever met yours, but I like to hope they did. Even in passing. Just as proof that our lives are still entwined somehow.

I’m always too late with you. Too late realizing how much I loved you. Too late taking your advice. Too late apologizing. But I was early for your funeral. There were so many people, Foggy. Everyone wanted a word. I could hear all their furtive words to you. How much joy you brought this city. How much your loss was felt in every block and alley. But even through the tears and anguish, I could smell the wax on your face where they covered up the bullet wounds. I could have gone my whole life never knowing the smell of your brain, old pal, but I can’t ever scrub that from my mind.

I stayed for hours afterwards, too. Still thinking of the perfect words to say to you. When I came up short, I visited your grave every day for months. Even after the smell of your decaying flesh had worn from my memory, and all the preservatives they pumped you with were thoroughly covered by the warm soil and the freshly growing grass. But I kept coming up short, and by then I realized it was pointless, anyway. Marci visited a lot, too. She left flowers that were too fragrant, but you would have appreciated them. I hated her for moving on, too, because you deserved someone devoted. But I knew you would have wanted her to and she was at peace with you in a way I’m still jealous of.

I’ve accumulated a lot of regrets in my life. Dying won’t be one of them. God knows he should have taken me years ago. Sometimes I think that maybe it’s some sick joke, and he’s waiting for me to see everyone I love die first as a way to atone for my many sins.

But God doesn’t preoccupy my mind as much as he did. Not like you do. I wonder where I place in your memories. Estranged best friend? Former business partner? Do I even register, or does your full and happy life take precedence? I try not to entertain the idea that things could have been different, that we could have belonged to each other. It’s irrelevant. It hurts too much. You lived decades without me. Thrived, even. So more than wallowing in my want, I curse God that I wasn’t better for you. That he let me hold you back, that I was too stubborn to let you go earlier. I really can’t apologize enough.

I’m still a coward. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of what comes after. I don’t know if I made it into Heaven, Foggy. But I’m sure you did. I’m afraid I won’t be where you are. I’m afraid that you’d hate me if I am. I’m afraid that, maybe, after all this time, you’re really just gone from me forever. I miss you so much, even still.

It’s always you. It’s still you. I still fear your judgement. I fear your disappointment. I fear your disgust. I fear your rejection. But you’re still the heartbeat I search for when I listen to the world that’s moved on without me. You’re still reigning me in, reminding me of the good. There isn’t a lot I ask God for nowadays, but you, Foggy, I pray every damn day for you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt finds someone to commiserate with

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grief is a process, best experienced as shared, only a part of which is depression. It was important to me to end on a positive note, because there will always be people catching you if you are grieving.

It’s a warm July day when Matthew Michael Murdock finds himself sitting outside an old coffee shop, basking in the sun. The pastries are always a little on the sweet and greasy side, but the lattes almost remind him of an old friend.

“Murdock?” he hears a familiar voice call out, a little breathless from its morning jog. It’s still as bright and cutting as it was the last time he properly heard it. But there’s a darker cadence to it, too. Weathered with experience, both tragic and lovely. “Matthew Murdock?” It repeats, a little acerbic but not malicious. “It’s Marci. Marci Stahl-Nelson, if you remember me.”

It takes a second for Matt to find his own voice. “Of course,” he chokes out. “How have you been, Marci?” Then, after a moment, he remembers his manners. “Please, have a seat, if you would like.” It comes out stiff. He thinks she notices.

She’s quiet for a moment. He can feel how short her hair has gotten, the minuscule nod as she looks him up and down. A million city sounds bounce off of her body.

For all that she’s surely gone through, it seems she’s never broken a bone. Her steps are still springy. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out she hadn’t even grown a wrinkle. She doesn’t wear perfume anymore, and under her natural scents and the smells of her new partner, there’s still a hint of Foggy.

They had grown and lived together for years, of course he would linger in her veins. Hell, he lingers in Matt’s own veins, traceable only by himself, felt most acutely when he catches himself thinking of the other man. Translated, that means often. The jealousy is old and worn, and now it seems out of place. Especially since her ring clinks on a metal chair as she pulls it out to sit.

“So how have you been?” she asks, as casual as she can manage, as if they were old friends. Maybe they were, in a way. A husband’s longtime best friend.

“I’ve been like I’ve always been, Marci,” he says, surprisingly honest. His answer comes out tired and a little sad, even to his own ears. “How are you?”

She laughs, bright but empty. “Oh, you know. About as well as you can expect.”

They’re quiet for a long moment. Matt takes a sip of his drink.

“I, uh, saw you at the funeral,” she says, finally. “You could have said hi instead of brooding in the shadows like you always do.” It had only been a year and a half since. Foggy is still a fresh scar on both of them. Always will be, he suspects. He just nods in agreement, unseeing eyes downcast.

“Hey, Murdock,” she calls out to him when he doesn’t respond verbally. “We’re friends, right?” He shrugs noncommittally. “I’ll take that as a yes.” There are moments she reminds him of Foggy now. More proof that they had grown together. He wonders what Foggy had absorbed of Marci over the years by the end of his life. It’s a little disorienting. She sighs deeply, air filling her entire lungs. Something else she had taken from her late husband.

“You should know, he was always expecting you to call. He never gave up on you. Right til the end, really. He kept tabs on you. Keeping track of your work, bragging at your winning cases. The works. And little Mikey? I know you’ve never met him, but he knows you as ‘Uncle Matty.’ You were very thoroughly Foggy's best friend. It’s a little gross, actually,” she offers. He reads her body. _True, true, true_. Not even a hint of pity. A little exasperation, maybe.

Matt feel like he’s sinking. He’s full with the feeling that Foggy still cared, and the notion tickles his eyes. He was waiting for him, maybe he still is. He doesn’t trust his voice.

“He really loved you, you know,” she offers, almost disinterested, as if it were just common knowledge she was referencing. Maybe it was.

“Yeah?” he questions shakily.

“Yeah,” she confirms, backed with a small sigh. “I kind of half expected you guys to run away together. I kept thinking if you were normal friends, you would have gone on suspiciously long fishing trips without packing any fishing lines if you know what I mean.” He can feel her eyes roll.

Matt shakes his head. _If only_ , he thinks bitterly. “He would never-,” he starts. There are a million ways to finish that sentence. _Betray you_ , _abandon the life he’s created_ , _look at me the way he looked at you_.

“No, he wouldn’t,” she agrees, wistfully. “But you loved him, too, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” There isn’t a qualifier. It’s safe to say. Better to say love in the nebulous and vague way offered than to add an incriminating qualifier.

“God, if you could see your face when you looked at him, even back in law school. It was almost cute. I thought maybe that’s just how you were, but then I found you hanging out without him. You were like some sad puppy. Still are.” And she was always too observant, to blunt to be comfortable. “God, you’re so in love, it’s a little disgusting.”

The six foot tall grown man shrinks into himself. “You’re not mad?”

She shakes her head. And a moment later, realizes he shouldn’t be able to see it. “No. I mean, I can’t blame you for loving him. It’s surprisingly hard not to.” She says it like she’s a little surprised at herself for her thirty year marriage. “I’m mad you never trusted him with that knowledge. And I’m definitely blaming you for being a shitty friend. He missed you so much. Every day. For thirty years. But I would never say anything about loving him. Pot calling the kettle, you know?”

“I couldn’t be what he needed,” Matt states simply. The simplest truth.

“Bullshit,” she says, it’s piercing and icy. It’s aimed right at his heart and it hits its target square. “Listen, it was really simple. You were two people that cared about each other. You should have been there, you dick. That’s on you.”

He wants to be angry at her. He wants to blame her for stealing him away, claim that there were confounding variables, spurious results, that it wasn’t that simple. Unfortunately, she's making too much sense. He wonders briefly if that’s Foggy’s influence or if she had always been like this. He knows he should have just been happy to have his friend’s attention any way he could and that he should have showed up and been supportive because that’s what friends do. But everything felt selfish back then.

“Honestly, maybe I should be thanking you for letting me have him. He really would have done anything you asked. He was kind of in love with you, Murdock.”

It’s not a welcome revelation anymore. It’s too tragic. It unveils more regrets. Regrets he didn’t know he was allowed to have until now because Marci’s being too honest right now. There's nothing left to lose. Whatever there was has already been lost.

“Why are you telling me this?” Matt asks, thoroughly chilled to the core.

“Because, Murdock, as much as I resent you for hurting him constantly, for thirty two goddamn years when you couldn’t be bothered pick up the phone and chat, when you refused to visit and meet the child he _named after you_ , you deserve to know where he was with you. It’s the decent thing to do. That, and I want you to explain yourself.”

 _He kept hurting because of me? He would’ve welcomed me? He named his son after me?_ He took a deep breath, and uttered the only truth that still mattered. “He didn’t need me.”

“Yeah," Marci exclaims. The exasperation pushes forth, now. "People don’t really need each other, Matthew. But he wanted you around, you idiot. God knows he didn’t need me. And I didn’t need him, but we agreed to live together and share taxes because we liked each other.” She pauses again.

“I know you visited his grave constantly. The groundskeeper told me he thought you were his widower. It would have been funny if it weren’t so sad. He shouldn’t have had to die for you to see him.” She sighs deeply again, but reaches for his arm.

“But,” she starts deliberately. “I know it couldn’t have been easy, losing him like that. I bet you wanted to put on that damn costume and get back into old habits, if you know what I mean,” she says slowly, emphatically. Matt shoots up.

“You know? About the costume?” It shouldn’t have felt like a betrayal, she was his _wife_. But it did feel like it. A small one.

“Jesus, you’re easy to read. I remember when we first got married, and I would constantly catch you pining when you thought no one was looking. I would also sometimes catch a red blur on our rooftops. Sometimes in the early mornings when it should have been obvious that the sun was out. Then, I realized maybe he couldn’t see how bright it was. I asked, and we both know Franklin Nelson has always been a really, really bad liar.”

“And you never felt the need to confront me?”

“Listen,” Marci said, compassion creeping into her voice. “There was a lot about his life I respected. You were his family, and by extension, you were mine. I wouldn’t have done anything that hurts you. And it hurts that you didn’t know that. I figured you were just  working through your shit.”

Matt was finished with his coffee now, but he plays with the mug in his hands. Marci takes it away gingerly and collects his plate. She checks her phone briefly and looks back up.

“Hey, do you want to go on a trip with me?” She asks him, surprisingly gentle, despite her nervous heart. Matt just nods again, overwhelmed with what is happening.

It’s a short walk, she informs him. Just a few blocks over. All along the way, the pair share anecdotes of their mutual friend, their mutual love. Marci even fights a few laughs out of Matt, and it’s overwhelming in a new way. Matt would have to beat himself up about lost time later because he finds himself enjoying the company.

She offers him her elbow easily, another familiar gesture. She’s so much smaller than her husband, and it feels a little unbalanced leaning on her, but he takes it gladly. They walk arm in arm, Matt’s cane clacking in front of him, and it doesn’t feel too far from right.

“Hey, Matthew,” she says suddenly, in a teasing lilt. “I know you’re a pro at self-flagellation and guilt, but you should know that Foggy and I weren’t exactly strangers to unconventional romantic relationships. I don’t think either of us would have been particularly unwelcoming if you wanted to work out an arrangement.”

That thought was also exhilarating, and it made him giddy all over again, just to be able to think about Foggy openly, entertaining possibility. It’s years and years too late, but it’s reassuring nonetheless to be accepted. There’s loss, but there are also bits of Foggy still to be discovered. He wouldn’t be able to hug the man again, to hear his voice, to listen to a quick quip and chuckle like he used to, but Foggy had lived a full life even without him, and there would always be stories of him to be found in unexpected corners of the city. And Matt could seek them out if he wanted to.

“Thank you, Marci. I-” he takes a deep breath, and his eyes are warm and misty and had been for a long time. “I know it’s too late to say this, but thank you. For making him happy. For being so accepting of everything.”

“Yeah, yeah. It only took you four decades to get your head out of your ass and see how wonderful I am but you made it in the end,” he could feel her gaze, and his face had always been too easy to read. “Hey, you believe in an afterlife, right? I mean, if it’s comforting, you can look forward to seeing him there. Maybe you can finally smooch him.”

“You think I’ll end up where he is?” it comes out only half-joking, but his mouth is still curved up in a grin. It’s a ghost of what it used to be, back all those years ago, but it’s present.

“I’m sure we can find someone to pray for you.” She leans her head on his shoulder a little, perhaps too affectionate for what they are, for Matt having spent an adult lifetime resenting her a little, but he’s not surprised to find it a welcome comfort now.

When he doesn’t speak for a moment, she pokes his side companionably. “Hey,” she calls out through his cloudy brain. “Stop thinking about dying. Statistically speaking, you have about twenty more years on this planet, and you will not spend it pining after my dead husband, you creep.” She says without real heat. Matt finds himself gaping a little, blushing despite the circumstances.

“Well, here we are,” she declares, stopping in front of a building. She leads him inside. He hears a jingle of keys, a short beep, and the shifting air of opening doors. It’s domestic in a way he finds himself craving, having craved for too long. She hums absently all the way up the elevator. It’s another holdover from Foggy, and Matt lets himself wonder what habits he would have picked up if he had reconnected with his friend sooner.  It hurts a little less to think about now. She stops in front of a door, knocking loudly.

A body moves on the other side of the door, stopping in front of the peephole briefly before opening it.

“Hey, mom, what’s up?” the man asks. His voice is young and bright. There’s a familiar note in it that pierces Matt’s heart. The man hugs Marci deeply, shaking her from side to side.

“I met an old friend while I was out. I thought you’d like to meet him,” she answers, stepping into the apartment confidently. She strides in, carrying an aura about her like she always had. Matt instinctively finds himself listening for a signature clack-clack of stiletto heels, but his ears come up short. She saunters off into the space, fussing about how messy the man is, how he really needs to get new storage units, and about the state of his interior decorating.

The man considers him only for a moment before clapping a hand to his forehead emphatically. “You must be uncle Matty! Wow! I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you!” He sounds chipper and excited, as if this were a meeting decades in the making. Maybe it is.

Matt extends a hand in front of him, the angle slightly off like he’s practiced to do when keeping up with his blindness. The man bats it away, going for a hug instead. That, too is a familiar gesture. He’s sturdy and broad, like his father was.

“I’m Michael, by the way. Little Mikey Nelson, in case you haven’t figured it out,” the man says, pulling away and leading him to a couch in the living room.

Matt can’t help but chuckle. “You know, it’s funny. I used to have a brother called Michael.”

“Holy shit, right! You were the famous Daredevil! Oh my God, dad used to have all these stories.” the man says in wonder. And here was a grown man in his thirties, excited about a long-gone superhero when there were new ones with far more impressive powers keeping the streets safe. Matt feels warm again, letting himself be out in the open.

“Care to share a few tales, Matthew?” Marci asks, curled up in a plush chair somewhere to Matt’s left.

Matt lets himself laugh again, overwhelmed with how _right_ this feels. He’s here a few years too late, but here nonetheless. He imagines inviting Jackie over. Even imagines Marci’s new partner next to her with whatever people she inherits through that relationship. Imagines Foggy watching over the lot of them from wherever he is, content that his family’s all together.

He tries not to regret what the scene would have looked like a few decades ago, a few toddlers running around who would eventually grow to be best friends. Brothers, even. But there’s peace of mind knowing that Matt’s forgiven and loved. That somehow, Foggy had created a space and a family for him, and all he had to do was step into place. Foggy’s memory is less bitter now, the regret of a lost great romance seems trivial now, knowing there had always room for him.

So he clears his throat when Mikey settles down next to him, setting down a tray of lemon water on the coffee table.

“Well, you can’t really start a Daredevil story without mentioning his daytime law practice, Nelson and Murdock-” he regales. And he can feel his shoulders get lighter.

And if each of them cries at some point, it’s all okay because they’re with family.

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Cleopatra by the Lumineers on the subway and I got sad. I hope you don't mind that I took so many liberties with the canon.
> 
> (Subject to be edited because I don't proofread enough ever and it's my first published work here lol.)


End file.
